


gotta keep on rockin' (just can't stop)

by gilligankane



Series: you can tell everybody this is your song [36]
Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: 80's Music, F/F, Mixtape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 12:45:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15097001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gilligankane/pseuds/gilligankane
Summary: Curtis looks back down at the flyer. “The drums, huh?”Nicole nods. “My grandmother, on my dad’s side, said I would never have piano hands. And guitars are cool, but I don’t get enough allowance to buy one.” She lowers her voice. “And I think it would hurt my hands.”





	gotta keep on rockin' (just can't stop)

**Author's Note:**

> It's 1982 and Nicole _loves_ the music. And the next step should be learning how to play it, right? And she should be good at it, shouldn't she be?

**“Jukebox Hero” Foreigner, 1981  
** _ In a town without a name, in a heavy downpour. Thought he passed his own shadow, by the backstage door. Like a trip through the past, to that day in the rain and that one guitar, made his whole life change. Now he needs to keep on rockin', he just can't stop. Gotta keep on rockin', that boy has got to stay on top. _

Nicole twists the flyer in her hand nervously. She can hear the paper crinkling, and she stops quickly, smoothing it out between her hands, using her thigh to shape it. The paper is neon green, as bright as the polo shirts that Dolls wears, and has a giant snare drum on the front.

_ Drum Lessons with Dale! _ it says across the top.  _ Come get your rock on! _

Nicole had seen it on the Girls’ Club bulletin board, near the front door. Usually, there’s boring signs with dogwalkers or babysitting or people trying to sell their old things. But when Nicole looked yesterday, on her way out the door after Nathan was done with basketball practice, there was a big stack of papers pinned to the board. She grabbed it before she could change her mind, following Nathan and his friend Perry out into the cold January afternoon and shoved the flyer into her pocket.

“I want to play drums,” she whispers, pacing back and forth - one, two, three, four, turn sharply and back again. “I want to play drums.” She takes a deep breath. “Nathan does baseball and basketball and hockey, and I can use my allowance money to help pay for lessons, and Mattie already said she would lend me a pair of drumsticks if you say yes, and-”

“You alright, girl?”

Nicole jumps a little. Curtis is behind her, leaning against the kitchen door with a smile on his face. She shoves the flyer into her back pocket, wincing when it crinkles again. “Fine,” she says too quickly.

Curtis narrows his eyes, his smile still in place. “Only, you’re out here talking to yourself.”

“Bobo,” Nicole says. “Bobo was just here.”

Curtis nods slowly, like he doesn’t believe her. 

Nicole sighs. “I’m talking to myself.”

“I figured.” Curtis comes down the steps and sits down on the stack of milkcrates by the door. “About what?”

Nicole looks down at the ground, kicking at a chunk of broken gravel with the toe of her sneaker. Slowly, she reaches into her back pocket and pulls out the flyer again, smoothing it as much as she can between her hands before she reaches out, handing it to Curtis.

He takes the flyer, turning it over. Nicole watches his face as he reads it: the way his eyes narrow and his head moves to follow the shape of the text arching over the snare drum. She sings a whole chorus of Bruce Springsteen’s ‘Thunder Road’ - Curtis taught her the words last week - before he looks back up, studying her.

“Dale Spencer is giving drum lessons, huh?”

Nicole nods. “He was in a band.”

“Countryknot,” Curtis says slowly. “I remember. It was when we were in high school. We weren’t that bad.”

Nicole steps forward excitedly. “ _ You  _ were in a band?”

Curtis nods. “For a hot minute. Turns out I’m more of a ‘listen and love’ than ‘make the music’ kind of guy. Dale was nice about it. He let me haul speakers for the rest of the time the band was around.”

Nicole sits down on the smaller stack of crates next to Curtis, staring up at him with wide eyes. “Why did the band break up?” She’s picturing Curtis on the road now, carrying speakers up and down ramps in bars and standing at the back of the stage,  _ feeling _ the music. 

“Same reason anything in high school breaks up,” Curtis says wistfully. “You grow up, you move on. Dale’s girl got pregnant and Richie got married. Eddie quit. I got booted long before that.” He shrugs. “We all went different ways.”

Nicole frowns. “That’ll never happen to me,” she swears.

Curtis grins. “No?”

Nicole shakes her head firmly. “No way. Me and Wynonna and Waverly are  _ always _ going to be friends. And Doc, I guess.”

Curtis puts a heavy hand on her shoulder. “I hope so, girl. I really do.”

“I swear it,” Nicole says, her voice hard. It catches her off guard, the feeling in her stomach. It’s hot, and it slices through her. She can’t imagine being without Wynonna or Waverly; she can’t imagine they want to be without her either.

“Gus was my high school sweetheart,” Curtis says. “So I guess, maybe not everything in high school ends.”

Nicole wrinkles her nose. “I won’t ever have a sweetheart,” she decides.

Curtis laughs. “Why not?”

“They seem like a lot of work,” Nicole sighs.

“Gus and I make it look like a lot of work?” Curtis asks, leaning back a little bit.

Nicole wrinkles her nose, thinking. “Well, I guess not,” she admits. “You guys  _ like _ each other. But my parents didn’t.” She shrugs a shoulder. “My dad was a lot of work, my mom said.”

Curtis squeezes her shoulder again softly, and Nicole shakes her head.

“Anyway, I’ll be too busy with Wynonna.” Nicole smiles crookedly. “She’s a handful.”

Curtis barks out a laugh. “That she is, that she is.” He rocks forward again, pursing his lips. “But I know she’ll shape up into something amazing. You can see it in her eyes.”

“You can?” Nicole asks.

Curtis hums a yes at her. “So long as you girls all stay on track, there’s nothing you can’t do.”

Nicole knows a direction when she hears one. She puffs out her chest a little and pulls back her shoulders, trying to look like her dad taught Nathan to stand - tall and proud and confident.  _ Look like someone who can be trusted _ , her dad would tell Nathan.  _ Like someone who can be counted on _ . Nicole tries to make her face the same as her dad’s - sharp eyes and a thin smile - and tries to make Curtis see; he can count on her. 

“I won’t let us get off track,” she says firmly. She pauses. “What track, though?”

Curtis laughs a little harder this time. “Well, that’s up to you, isn’t it?”

Nicole frowns. “How will I know if it’s the right one?”

Curtis shrugs. “You’ll just know.” He taps two fingers to his chest. “It’ll feel good in here.”

Nicole nods slowly, trying to take all of his words in and commit them to memory. She can’t always remember many things - numbers never stick in her brain like they’re supposed to, but she’s good at remembering what people say and how their faces move when they speak. She can tell when someone is lying and when they’re happy and when they’re sad, and she can remember all of it real quick.  _ Your superpower _ , her mom told her once.  _ Remembering things about people is your superpower _ .

She had wanted super strength, like He-Man. She didn’t know any superheroes who could  _ remember  _ things, and it sounded lame.

Curtis looks back down at the flyer. “The drums, huh?”

Nicole nods. “My grandmother, on my dad’s side, said I would never have piano hands. And guitars are  _ cool _ , but I don’t get enough allowance to buy one.” She lowers her voice. “And I think it would hurt my hands.”

“It would,” Curtis whispers back. “At least, until you got used to it.”

“Plus,” Nicole continues, raising her voice again. “Dennis Elliot is a bomb dude.”

Curtis nods, impressed. “Foreigner, huh?”

“Nathan is really into Foreigner right now,” Nicole says. “He’s been listening to ‘Hot Blooded’ on repeat.” 

“Good song,” Curtis says absently. He taps his fingers over the snare drum on the flyer. “So, are you going to call him?”

Nicole sighs. “I already did,” she admits. “I used the payphone outside of Cal’s.”

“And?”

Nicole shakes her head. “Even if I saved up all of my allowance for a whole year  _ and _ the birthday money I get from my grandmother, I wouldn’t have enough to do lessons.”

Curtis continues to look down at the flyer, tapping his foot. It takes Nicole a second before she can pick up the melody he’s matching - Foreigner’s “Double Vision.” She tries to copy him, but her feet don’t work the same as his does. “Let’s make a deal,” he finally says.

Nicole frowns. “The TV show?”

Curtis smiles at her. “No, girl. You and me. Let’s make a deal. I’ll pay for lessons if you-”

“No,” Nicole says quickly. “No way.”

Curtis narrows his eyes. “You didn’t hear my proposal.”

All Nicole can hear is her dad in her head,  _ If you don’t have any money, don’t expect things to be bought for you _ . 

“My dad says-”

“I know what he says,” Curtis interrupts. His voice is sharper than it usually is, and Nicole feels her shoulders pulling in a little bit. Curtis sighs and runs his hand through his hair. “I know what your dad says,” he says again, softer and more like him. “But I’m making a deal with you, so it goes both ways. Do you want to hear it?”

Nicole pauses for a long moment before she nods slowly.

“I’ll pay for lessons,” Curtis repeats, his words slow and measured. “And in return, you help out at The Patch once a week.” He nods towards the kitchen door behind him. “Sweeping, setting tables. All the stuff Waverly helps out with. She could use an extra hand.”

Nicole narrows her eyes, pressing her lips into a thin line. “What’s in it for you?”

“Besides having someone else do those jobs Gus always wants me to do?” Curtis laughs. “Nothing.”

“There’s something,” Nicole says, studying his face.

Curtis shakes his head, his laugh fading. “I can’t get anything by you, can I?”

Nicole puffs her chest out proudly, shaking her head back at him. “Nope.”

“Alright,” Curtis concedes. “I figure, if you’re here, Wynonna will be, too. That girl doesn’t go anywhere without you, and she won’t go anywhere you’re not.” He rubs his hand down the back of his neck - he’s worried about something, Nicole can tell. “She hardly wants to spend any time around Gus, you know? The two of them are so alike that they have a hard time being in the same place. But if you’re here, Wynonna will be, too.”

Nicole knows Wynonna doesn’t always want to be around Gus. Waverly loves Gus; Waverly clings to her and rushes right back to The Patch after school to sit at the counter and tell Gus about everything she learned that day. But Wynonna takes her time, the front wheel of her bike looping back and forth in slow circles, and she always tries to make Nicole stop at Cal’s or the pharmacy or Mattie’s, just to kill time. Nicole isn’t sure  _ why _ Wynonna doesn’t want to hang out with Gus - Wynonna won’t say. But sometimes, Wynonna talks about her mom, and Nicole thinks maybe that’s it; maybe she doesn’t want anyone to replace her mom.

Nicole knows what that’s like. She doesn’t want  _ anyone _ to replace her dad. She just wants him to come home.

“And,” Curtis says, leaning in to bump his shoulder against hers. Her milkcrates rock under her body. “If you sign up for drums, I can sign Wynonna up for piano lessons.”

Nicole grins widely. “ _ Deal _ .”

 

-

Nicole unlocks her hand-me-down 1979 Pro Foiler bicycle and pulls it out of the bike rack outside of the school, throwing her leg over the frame easily. Wynonna takes longer, wheeling her ‘77 Mongoose Motomag out of the rack and halfway across the teacher’s parking lot before she gets on. She pedals even slower, making wide, arching circles around Nicole.

“Stop stalling,” Nicole says, getting annoyed. “We’re going to be late.”

“Good,” Wynonna mutters.

“ _ Not _ good,” Nicole fires back. “I can’t be late.” She stands up on the pedals, shimmying her shoulders to make her backpack move. She’s got the drumsticks 

“I don’t  _ want _ to take piano lessons,” Wynonna whines. “I hate them.”

“Curtis said-”

“I don’t care what Curtis said,” Wynonna interrupts. “All the Bad Company tapes in the world isn’t worth sitting in Mrs. Warnick’s musty ol’ house on her musty ol’ couch and listening to her talk about ragtime and Scott Joplin.”

Nicole rolls her eyes.

“She always makes me these nasty cookies that don’t taste like anything, and she talks about my hands,” Wynonna continues. She makes a face. “Maybe she’s a serial killer.”

“And what?” Nicole asks, braking hard as Wynonna swerves in front of her. She kicks a foot out, catching Wynonna’s back tire and grinning when Wynonna wobbles slightly. “She’s going to kill you and mount your hands on her mantle? Is that what you’re worried about?”

Wynonna’s eyes go wide and she stops pedaling, her bike moving forward on its own. “Well,  _ now _ I am.”

Nicole shakes her head. “Don’t be such a noob. Your hands are ugly.”

Wynonna gasps. “They’re  _ beautiful _ .”

“You bite your fingernails,” Nicole points out.

“You pick yours,” Wynonna fires back.

“Yeah, but drummers need to look  _ cool _ ,” Nicole says defensively.

Wynonna laughs loudly. “You? Cool? I don’t think so.”

Nicole rides in a sharp, close circle around Wynonna, reaching out to poke her in the shoulder. “I’m cool. Waverly says so all the time.”

“Waverly bedazzles things, too. So we can’t really trust her, can we?”

Nicole frowns, her shoulders dropping. “But I am cool,” she mutters.

“Sure you are,” Wynonna sings, winking. “The coolest. Cooler than… than Valdez.”

Nicole scowls. “Now I know you’re lying to me.”

They turn onto Magnolia and start to slow down a little. Wynonna is going to take the next left and Nicole is going to keep going straight, but they try to stretch this time out just a little longer. Nicole pedals backwards, sighing. Wynonna starts to circle again, long ovals that stretch to each side of the road. 

“Meet back at The Patch in an hour and a half?” Wynonna asks, braking at the top of Pineywoods.

Nicole nods. “Last one there has to do Bobo’s dishes.”

Wynonna wrinkles her nose and takes off, pedaling furiously towards Mrs. Warnick’s house. Nicole watches her skid to a stop in the driveway, leaving her bike on the grass by the big wooden sign on the lawn that says ‘Mrs. Warnick’s Piano Lessons’ on it in fading letters. Nicole keeps going down Magnolia, pulling into a driveway towards the end of the street. She parks her bike next to Dale’s 1969 Volkswagen Bus - baby blue with a white top and a shiny silver rack. 

Dale is sitting on the porch, twirling a drumstick with one hand and tapping on the rail with the other. He grins when he sees her, pushing up to his feet. “Let’s rock, kid,” he calls.

Nicole follows him up the stairs and into the house, turning into the living room. It still takes her breath away every time she’s in here - even if she’s only been in here three times so far. 

“My music room,” Dale had said at her first lesson. Curtis, his hand on her shoulder, whistled. Nicole had insisted she didn’t need to be dropped off, but Curtis told her he didn’t mind; he was going to drive by and check to make sure Wynonna really was at piano lessons on his way. 

The room was big, as big as Nicole’s living room, with bookshelves that went from the floor all the way up past Curtis and Dale to the ceiling. They were filled with cassette tapes, except for one shelf with old vinyl records. Dale had a big stereo on one wall - a stacking Sony ST-A6B stereo system with big speakers on either side of it. There were guitars hanging on another wall, electric and acoustic, and big black things he called amps on the floor beneath them. At the end of her first lesson, he plugged a guitar into it and played the opening of Led Zeppelin's “Heartbreaker” just because.

Nicole wondered if this is what it felt like when Curtis looked at Gus; like the slide of fingers over string and the wobble in her stomach.

In the middle of the room was the biggest drum kit Nicole had ever seen. She’s seen pictures and posters of concerts at Mattie’s, but nothing like  _ this _ . He went over every drum at first, making her repeat the names back to him. There was the bass drum, bigger than her, that he called a kick drum. Then the low tom, the mid tom, and the hi tom ones that were right in front of her when she sat on the stool positioned in the center of the kit. There was the snare, the one that made the noise she liked, and the cymbals: the ride and the crash and the hi-hat. 

She memorized all the names the first night and drew the a diagram the next day during math class.

Nicole stops in front of the cassettes, like she always does, and memorizes the name of a cassette. She’ll listen to it the next time she goes to Mattie’s, and maybe buy it if she likes more than two songs. It’s her rule: two songs or more, and the tape is worth it.

“Got your sticks?” Dale asks.

Nicole pulls them out of her backpack, holding them up triumphantly. 

Dale smiles at her. “Perfect. Let’s practice the drum rudiments I taught you last week.”

Nicole’s smile falters a little bit. Dale had taught her the first three rudiments last week - the single-stroke roll, the multiple bounce roll, and the double-stroke open roll. Her homework was to practice them for a half hour every day and come back  _ good _ at it. 

She could do the single stroke roll, just left and right and left and right, over and over again. She was supposed to start slow, and that was easy enough. But the faster she went, the quicker she lost the rhythm. The multiple bounce roll was too quick, and the one time she tried to practice at home, she almost hit her mom in the head with the drumstick that slipped out of her hand. 

“Drums,” her mom had grumbled. “Honestly. What was Curtis thinking?” She smiled and kissed Nicole’s head on her way out the door to a double shift. 

Nicole had sheepishly picked it up from underneath the pantry cupboard and taken her drumsticks outside, sitting in the driveway and practicing the double-stroke open roll on the bottom step leading to the house. No matter how hard she tried, though, she struggled to get the  _ one, one, two, two, one, one, one, two, two, one, one _ down. 

“Show me what you’ve got,” Dale says, gesturing at the stool.

Nicole sits down hesitantly, tapping the sticks against her thigh and figuring out her grip. She takes a deep breath and looks up at him nervously, but he smiles and nods at the snare drum. Nicole bites down on her bottom lip and sits up a little straighter, starting with a single-stroke roll.

She counts in her head -  _ one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two _ . She speeds it up until she can’t say the numbers quick enough in her head, and then she hovers at that pace. She slows down after a minute and transitions into a multiple bounce roll, going even slower. She ends up using her right hand too much and grinds her back teeth together, trying to transition into the double-stroke open roll quickly and hide her mistake. It’s a little easier, at least, to go right, right, left, left, right, right, left, left. She even starts bobbing her head to her beat, but she looks up at Dale and ends up going right, left, right, the beat veering off track. 

“Crap,” she mutters.

Dale smiles encouragingly. “You have the single-stroke roll down. Do you think you can go faster with it?”

_ No _ , Nicole thinks.

“Sure,” she says.

She takes a deep breath and tries again, starting slow. 

_ One, two, one, two, one, two, one. _

She tries to go faster, but her hands feel too clumsy, too heavy, and one drumstick clatters off the side of the snare drum and hits the floor.

“Try again,” Dale says kindly, handing her the drumstick.

Nicole takes a deep breath and tries again. She starts slow  _ one… two… one… two…  _ and picks up the pace  _ one, two… one, two… one, two… _ until she thinks she can go a little bit faster:  _ one, two, one, two, one, two _ . Dale smiles encouragingly, and Nicole narrows her eyes, focusing on the snare drum. She leans forward, hands moving:  _ one, two, onetwo, onetwo _ ,  _ oneone _ .

Nicole stops, clenching the drumstick tight in her hand, the off-beat sound still ringing in her ears. “I can’t do it.”

“That’s not true,” Dale says.

Nicole looks up at him, scowling. “I just tried  _ twice, _ and I can’t do it.” Her jaw aches from where she’s clenching it. “I can’t even do the stupid, easy stuff.”

Dale’s smile feels just a little forced. “Well, sometimes, you just have to put a lot of effort into the ‘easy stuff’, the details.” He claps a hand down on her shoulder, but it doesn’t feel warm or comforting like Curtis’s. “You put in the effort, and it’ll happen.” He leans in like he’s telling her a secret. “I used to practice  _ all _ the time. At home, at the dinner table, in school. It drove my teachers crazy, but by the time I was in high school, I could play every instrument I wanted to play.”

“Yeah,” Nicole mutters.

“You’ll get it,” Dale assures her. “Same time next week?”

Nicole shoves the drumsticks in her backpack, her stomach twisting. “Uh, yeah,” she says. She pulls her backpack on and tightens the straps, toeing at the heavy carpet under the drum kit. “See ya,” she mumbles.

“Practice!” Dale calls after her as she hits the front porch. She picks her bike up and gets on quickly, pedaling down the driveway and turning sharply onto Magnolia. Her eyes burn, and the drumsticks dig into her hip as she pedals. She rides into the curb, her stomach hitting her handlebars. She drops her bike to the ground and pulls her backpack off, sitting down on the road and crossing her legs, the curb in front of her.

She  _ tries _ . 

She can’t do it.

She can’t find the rhythm. 

“What’re you doing, you noob?”

Nicole wipes at her face, standing up unsteadily. “Nothing,” she mutters.

Wynonna frowns at her. “You look like a total putt sitting there.”

“You took forever,” Nicole says defensively.

Wynonna rolls her eyes. “As if.”

“As if,” Nicole mocks.

Wynonna ignores her, waiting impatiently for her to get back on her bike. She shoves the drumsticks into her back pocket instead of her backpack, leaning forward over her handlebars and pushing off.

“Mrs. Warnick said I have  _ promise _ ,” Wynonna says proudly.

_ Dale says someday I’ll learn how to do the basics _ , Nicole thinks. 

“Cool,” she says instead.

“Come on,” Wynonna urges. “I want to tell Waverly someone likes me better than they like her.”

Nicole frowns. “Does Mrs. Warnick even  _ know _ Waverly?”

Wynonna’s eyes sparkle. “Nope.” She leans forward, pedaling harder. “But no one has to know that.”

 

-

Nicole’s stomach turns as they coast onto Magnolia. Wynonna is going on about something Mrs. Warnick does that she thinks is creepy - collects dolls or mannequin heads or something - but Nicole is sure Wynonna is just telling tales. She’s ignoring her mostly, her stomach knotting the closer they get to Dale’s house.

Wynonna brakes at the corner of Magnolia and Pineywoods, pointing at Nicole. “Meet you here in an hour?”

Nicole shakes her head. “The Patch,” she says.

Wynonna pauses. “How come you keep finishing your lesson before me?”

“Because I’m better than you,” Nicole says quickly, sticking her tongue out at Wynonna

Wynonna flips her middle finger up, winking when Nicole picks up a handful of grass and throws it at her. She takes off down Pineywoods, and Nicole stays at the corner, watching her dump her bike on the lawn and take the steps up into the house two at a time.

Nicole waits another minute, singing one chorus of “Because The Night” by the Patti Smith Group before she slowly backs her bicycle up and turns it around, going down Magnolia, away from Dale’s.

It’s been four Tuesdays since the last time she went to his house for her lesson. Four Tuesdays of using the payphone in the school office, standing on a phonebook to reach the receiver, and calling Dale’s house to leave a message, saying she can’t come by today. Four Tuesdays of riding to Mrs. Warnick’s house with Wynonna, and then turning around, going back to the school and hiding in the play structure, or laying down in the tire swing and listening to her Walkman.

It’s been four Tuesdays of lying to Curtis about how great the drums are; of telling her mom she’s learning so much; of meeting Wynonna at The Patch and pretending that her hands ache from all the drumming she’s doing.

It’s been four Tuesdays of  _ lies, _ and today she wasn’t even able to eat her fluffernutter sandwich. 

She pedals slowly back towards Purgatory Elementary, switching on the Hitachi in the basket on the front of her bicycle. She bought Chicago’s  _ Chicago X _ at Mattie’s last weekend - she liked “If You Leave Me Now” and “Mama Mama” - and she’s been listening to it since then, on the morning ride to school and the ride back to The Patch. 

She skids into the parking lot, smiling a little when her back tire slides over the loose gravel. 

“ _ We played the pier on Venice beach. The crowd called out for more. Zappa and the Mothers next, we finished with a roar _ ,” Nicole sings, off-key and at the top of her lungs. 

She drops her bicycle at the end edge of the playground by the woodchips, careful of her Hitachi, and hoists her backpack up a little higher. She ducks under the monkeybars, around the slide, and jumps through the swings before she gets to the tire swing, on two poles in the back corner. Nicole leaves her backpack behind, fishing her Walkman out of it and the Squeeze  _ Argybargy  _ cassette she got two Saturdays ago.

She clips her Walkman to her front pocket and sits in the middle of the tire swing, laying back so that her head hangs down one side and her legs are over the other. 

Glenn Tilbrook is already singing as Nicole slips the headphones over her ears. 

“ _ Camber Sands, they do it at Waikiki. Lazing about the beach all day, at night the crickets creepy. Squinting faces at the sky, a Harold Robbins paperback. Surfers drop their boards and dry, and everybody wants a hat _ .”

Nicole tries to find the drum beat but she can’t. She sighs and just lets Tilbrook sing a little louder, thumbing the volume dial on her Walkman.

“ _ But behind the chalet, my holiday’s complete and I feel like William Tell, Maid Marian on her tiptoed feet, pulling mussels from- _ ”

Something cold grips her ankle and pulls. Nicole’s tire swing upends and she hits the ground with an  _ oof _ , her stomach twisting and her lunch in her mouth. 

“Nicole!”

Nicole groans, pushing woodchips off her face, and blinks up at Waverly. “What the-”

“Language,” Waverly says sharply.

“Nicole groans again, sitting up slowly. There’s woodchips sticking to her back and the thin metal of her headphones are bent. She pushes them down around her neck and glares up at Waverly. “What was that for?”

“I’ve been calling your name,” Waverly says sheepishly. 

Nicole points to her headphones. “Squeeze.”

“Squeeze what?” Waverly asks, frowning.

Nicole sighs. “The band.”

Waverly pushes out her bottom lip, thinking. “The one that sings ‘Cool for Cats’?”

Nicole grins. “Yeah. And ‘Slap and Tickle’.”

Waverly giggles. “Wynonna likes that song.”

“ _ Never chew a pickle with a little slap and tickle _ ,” they sing together.

Waverly’s cheeks go red. “I don’t know what that means, but Gus says-”

Nicole groans.

Waverly pauses, frowning. “What?”

“What?” Nicole echoes.

Waverly kicks a woodchip at her. “You like Gus.”

Nicole ducks her head. “I know,” she says quietly.  “Wynonna is just really mad at her this week.”

Waverly shrugs a shoulder. “Wynonna shouldn’t have been climbing on the roof.”

“We were just trying to see if you really could see the lights at The Patch or not,” Nicole says. “Curtis said you could, but Wynonna didn’t believe him.”

Waverly shakes her head slowly. “You still shouldn’t have done it. Then Wynonna wouldn’t have gotten in trouble.

“She grounded me, too,” Nicole grumbles. 

Waverly’s eyes widen. “She did?”

Nicole nods. “No extra fries all week.”

“The gagony.”

Nicole frowns. “The gagony?”

Waverly shrugs. “I heard Curtis say it when Gus told him he couldn’t eat any more donuts.”

Nicole wrinkles her nose. “I don’t know what word that is.”

Waverly shrugs again. She sighs and looks down. “Do you think Wynonna hates Gus?”

Nicole sucks her lips in. “No,” she says slowly.

“I think she does,” Waverly whispers.

Nicole picks up a woodchip, breaking it apart with her fingernail. “I think Wynonna misses your mom,” she whispers back.

Waverly’s head snaps up. “Did she say that?”

Nicole shakes her head quickly. “She didn’t. Don’t tell her I said it.”

Wynonna’s mom is still a sore spot, Nicole knows. Like her dad. It’s on their no-talk list, the one they made one night after Nicole’s dad called. It’s got only two things on it: Nicole’s dad and Wynonna’s mom. But it’s the only rule Wynonna follows.

“I won’t,” Waverly promises. “I miss my mom.”

“I miss my dad,” Nicole breathes.

Waverly is quiet for another minute, and Nicole takes two more woodchips apart. “Do you think…” She trails off.

Nicole looks up. “Do I think what?”

Waverly takes a deep breath. “Do you think it’s hurts more because you know him?”

“Know who?” Nicole asks.

“Your dad,” Waverly clarifies. “Do you think missing him would hurt less if you didn’t know him?”

Nicole shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says carefully.

“I think it does,” Waverly says. “I don’t remember my mom much, and I don’t think it hurts as much as it hurts for Wynonna.”

“Wynonna knew her,” Nicole says, her mouth moving just to do something.

Waverly nods. “Just a little bit, but… I think it makes it hurt more.”

“Yeah,” Nicole breathes.

“Yeah,” Waverly echoes. She opens her mouth to say something, but her eyes harden and she puts her hands on her hips.

Nicole looks up when Waverly is quiet for too long, and her eyes widen. She tries to scoot back. She knows that look, and it means  _ trouble _ . Waverly is about to yell at her for something. She’s got her mouth in a thin line and her forehead is wrinkled and her hands are on her hips and she’s got one foot turned out, tapping lightly. 

A  _ lot _ of trouble.

“It’s Tuesday,” Waverly says.

Nicole swallows. “Congratulations. You can read a calendar.”

Waverly’s frown deepens. “You’re supposed to be at your drum lesson.”

“It ended early,” Nicole fibs.

Waverly studies her face carefully. “What time?”

“I don’t have a watch,” Nicole says slowly.

“Take a guess,” Waverly challenges.

Nicole sighs.

“I knew it,” Waverly says under her breath. “You skipped it.”

“I did not,” Nicole says quickly. Her face burns. “I called and told him I couldn’t make it.” 

“Nicole,” Waverly scolds.

Nicole stands up, brushing off her jeans. She frowns at a spot of dirt on the knee and bends, licking her thumb and wiping at the denim.

“ _ Nicole _ ,” Waverly repeats.

Nicole looks up and sighs wearily. “What?”

“Why did you skip your lesson?”

“I didn’t-”

“Why did you call and cancel?” Waverly corrects, stomping her foot.

Nicole folds her arms over her chest, shrugging a shoulder. “I didn’t want to go,” she mumbles. Waverly opens her mouth again, but Nicole cuts her off. “What’re you even doing here?”

“I forgot my bedazzler at the top of the slide,” Waverly says. She sits down on the tire swing, her feet dangling in the middle. 

Nicole waits a moment before she grabs the chain and pulls it back, sending Waverly spinning in the other direction. Waverly laughs, throwing her head back. Her hair is curled today, tight ringlets that Nicole knows Gus did for her. They bounce on her shoulders and Nicole smiles even though her stomach is tied into a hundred knots.

“Are you going to tell?” Nicole asks, catching the tire in her hands. 

Waverly looks back over her shoulder. “Tell what?”

“That I cancelled my lesson?” Nicole asks. She lets go of the swing and it spins forward.

Waverly shrugs. “Come sit?”

Nicole hesitates a minute, but she nods slowly and stops the swing, sitting on the edge and moving her legs around so her toes touch Waverly’s. She stretches her leg out, her feet against the ground, and pushes so they start swinging easily.

“Are you going to tell?” she asks again.

Waverly peers up at her through her eyelashes. “Why did you cancel?” she asks slowly.

Nicole looks down, pushing at the ground again. They spin in a circle this time, until Nicole gets dizzy and she has to put both feet down to stop them. “I can’t play the drums,” she admits.

She hasn’t  _ told _ anyone. Dale knows - he watched her fail over and over again. But she hasn’t told her mom or even Wynonna. She  _ can’t _ tell Curtis. Not after he paid for the lessons and drove her to the first one. He asks excitedly about every lesson, and she makes something up -  _ I did a triple-stroke roll today _ , she’d tell him. Or,  _ Dale wanted me to try a flamacue, but I want to make sure my single-stroke rudiments are perfect _ .

Waverly frowns. “What does that mean?”

Nicole lets go of the chain with one hand, rubbing at the back of her neck. “It means that I can’t play the drums.” She looks up quickly. “But I have the money,” she says.

Waverly tips her head to one side. “What money?”

“Curtis’s money.” Nicole points at her backpack. “Every week, I just put it there and I swear I’m going to give it back to him.”

“Nicole,” Waverly says. “You’re- Wait.” She pauses. “Every week?”

Nicole feels her cheeks burn, and she looks away.

“ _ Nicole _ ,” Waverly repeats.

Nicole sighs and looks up. “What?”

“Every week?” Waverly asks again.

“Only four,” Nicole says weakly. “Don’t lecture me,” she says quickly, her voice firm. “I don’t need you to pretend to be my mom, okay?”

Waverly pulls back a little bit, eyes guarded. “Fine,” she mutters.

“Sorry,” Nicole mutters. “I just… I can’t play the drums.”

“I bet you-”

“I  _ can’t _ , Waverly,” Nicole hisses. “I tried and I tried, but I can’t… I can’t find the rhythm.”

Waverly frowns. “But you  _ love _ music.”

“Not enough, I guess,” Nicole grumbles. She pushes her foot off the groundm and they spin in a circle again until Waverly is reaching for her and grabbing her hand, her fingernails cutting into the skin. Nicole stops them suddenly, her stomach churning.

“I’m sorry,” Waverly says softly.

“Me, too,” Nicole mumbles. She sighs. “Come on. Get your bedazzler. We can go meet Wynonna at The Patch.”

“Are you going to talk to-”

“Can it, Waverly,” Nicole says sharply. She picks up her backpack, and her shoulders slump as she settles the straps on them. “I will,” she says softly, reaching for Waverly’s shoulder. “I just… I need time.”

Waverly nods. “Okay.”

Nicole follows Waverly across the parking lot, the silence building between them. She picks up her bicycle and walks it over to where Waverly left her own, parked neatly in the rack. Waverly’s mouth is in a thin line, and Nicole studies the shape of it, hating it. It usually means she’s mad and she doesn’t want to talk, and Nicole doesn’t like it. It makes her whole body hurt and her chest ache sharply like she swallowed a toothpick.

“We can listen to Wham!” she offers.

Waverly stares at her. “You hate Wham!”

Nicole shrugs. “You like it. And if it’s just this once, because Wynonna isn’t around, then… that’s okay.” The words feel stale in her mouth as she says them.

Waverly keeps staring at her, and Nicole knows that Waverly knows she’s just trying to make up for being mean. “No,” she finally says. “But do you have  _ Moving Pictures _ ?”

Nicole reaches into her basket and lifts the Rush cassette.

Waverly grins. “Okay then.”

“Okay,” Nicole repeats.

 

-

Nicole hangs up the phone and smiles sheepishly at the secretary. “Thank you,” she murmurs, handing her the phonebook she was standing on.

“Your Uncle okay?” Mrs. Candelet asks.

Nicole frowns. “What?”

“Your Uncle. You’ve called him every week now for some time,” Mrs. Candelet says slowly. “Curtis McCready never struck me as the kind of man who needed weekly check-ins.”

“Oh,” Nicole breathes out. “Uh, Curtis isn’t my uncle.”

Mrs. Candelet pauses. “Hmm. Well, I supposed I just assumed he was.”

_ I wish _ , Nicole thinks.

“No,” she says. “He’s Wynonna and Waverly’s uncle.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Candelet says. The bell rings, the clock in the office buzzing. “You best get back to class, now.”

Nicole nods sharply and hurries back down the hall, slipping into class and down the row of desks, sliding into her seat.

Wynonna looks up from where she’s writing on the desk, frowning at her. “Where did you go?” she hisses.

“Bathroom,” Nicole says out of the corner of her mouth. “What did I miss?”

“I added He-Man,” Wynonna says proudly.

Nicole leans over to look at Wynonna’s desk. It’s a collection of superheroes and song lyrics: He-Man and Superman and the Hulk, littered with Bad Company and Journey lyrics. The teacher had stopped trying to get Wynonna to erase it, and just moved her to a desk with a broken bottom that the janitor will just throw out at the end of the year. 

“What’s wrong with his face?” Nicole asks.

“Nothing,” Wynonna says defensively. “He’s  _ thinking _ .”

Nicole rolls her eyes and slumps down in her seat as the teacher starts reading “Little House in the Big Woods” out loud. It’s Tuesday and it’s not even lunchtime and she’s already cancelled her lesson, but her stomach is slowly knotting itself into a hundred tiny ties, all burning.

She gets through the rest of the day, but barely. She spends all of lunch pushing her meatloaf around her plate. She lets Wynonna steal her apple and her juice, and doesn’t even try to trade her for a helping of mashed potatoes. Waverly keeps shooting her looks across the table that make Nicole keep her head down. She spends all of recess on the tire swing, keeping an eye on Wynonna and John Henry -  _ Doc _ , she reminds herself. He’s  _ Doc _ now - sitting close at the top of the slide, trading notes about AC/DC’s new album,  _ For Those About To Rock _ , that Doc got at Mattie’s the other day. Waverly is with Chrissy and Rosita, on the swings, but Waverly keeps drifting over, her hands squeezing Nicole’s arms or knees or shoulders.

When they coast onto Magnolia street, Nicole waves at Wynonna and watches her disappear into Mrs. Warnick’s house.  _ Maybe I’ll go to Mattie’s today _ , she thinks.  _ The back way, obviously _ . She doesn’t want to go back to the playground; she’s worried Waverly will be there again.

She turns her bike around and stops so short, the tape in her Hitachi skips. 

Curtis waves from his truck, idling on the curb.

Nicole feels her stomach drop to her toes and her chest tightens like a belt that doesn’t fit right. 

“Hey, girl,” he calls out to her. “Get in.”

Nicole gets off her Foiler, walking it slowly towards Curtis’s truck. He gets out, smiling at her, and takes the bike from her, his big hands wrapping around the aluminum frame and lifting the whole thing up and off the ground like it’s weightless. He smiles wider when he turns back around and she’s still standing in the street.

“Go on,” he says kindly, pointing at the open door.

Nicole climbs up into the truck slowly, sliding across the bench seat to the passenger side. She presses herself against the door, picking at the skin around her thumb.

Curtis climbs in after her, pulling the door closed and shifting the truck into drive. The engine roars as he presses down on the gas. Fleetwood Mac is on the radio, and Nicole busies herself with singing along to “Rhiannon” as they speed through Purgatory. They go down Main Street, Shorty’s and The Patch all lit up in neon. They fly past the post office and the new houses being built on Rt. 81. Curtis turns sharply before the big ‘Now Leaving Purgatory’ sign and Nicole grabs the door handle to keep from falling over. The road turns to dirt under the tires and they bounce along the road for three Fleetwood Mac songs - “Over My Head,” “Crystal,” and “Say You Love Me” - before he pulls to a stop in a clearing.

Curtis gets out of the truck, holding the door open, leaving the engine running. “Come on, girl.”

Nicole slides along the vinyl, her sneakers hitting the dusty ground with a soft  _ thud _ . She’s never been up here before, but she knows all about it. Nathan keeps saying he’ll come up here some day, when he gets a car or a better bike. Wynonna swears she’s been up here before, too, but Nicole doesn’t really believe her.

_ Top of the World _ , people call it. 

It’s really just a cliffside that overhangs Purgatory, but everyone talks about it like it’s a big deal. Nicole doesn’t understand until she turns away from the truck and stares out at the whole of Purgatory. She can see everything from here: Main Street and down to Magnolia; the hospital and the high school; Lover’s Lane and the thick forest behind it.

Something groans as Curtis pulls down the tailgate, climbing into the bed of the truck and pushing Nicole’s bike closer to the cab. “Hop in,” he tells Nicole.

She puts one foot on the wheel and pushes up, swinging her leg over the side of the bed and scooting towards the lowered tailgate. She lets her legs hang off of it, swinging in circles.

Curtis clears his throat. “I like it up here. I have enough headspace.”

Nicole looks up at him, squinting. “Your head isn’t that big.”

Curtis laughs. “Gus’ll disagree with you on that.” He claps both hands down on his knees, kicking his feet out. Nicole watches the laces on his boots move: back and forth and back and forth. He’s quiet, looking out at Purgatory, his eyes scanning the whole town.

Fleetwood Mac is still playing in the truck cab, but the silence builds around them until Nicole feels like she’ll choke if she doesn’t speak soon.

“How did you know?” Nicole asks softly.

“Dale called,” Curtis explains. 

_ He doesn’t need to ask what she’s talking about _ , she thinks.  _ He already knows _ . 

Nicole frowns. “Waverly didn’t tell you?”

Curtis holds his hands up in surrender. “If you told Waverly, she didn’t mention it. Nope,” he sighs. “Dale. Said that you’ve been coming up with reasons not to come over. He especially liked that you had to take your sick fish to the vet’s office.”

Nicole feels her face flush. “I was running out of sick people,” she admits.

“What I want to know,” Curtis starts. “Is why you were coming up with sick people in the first place.”

Nicole looks down, scratching a chip in the paint.

“Because the Nicole  _ I _ know wouldn’t lie about something like that,” Curtis continues softly. “The Nicole  _ I _ know would have told Dale she didn’t want to play the drums anymore, and then she would have told me she didn’t want to, and-”

“I  _ want _ to,” Nicole breathes out, her head snapping up. She picks furiously at the skin around her thumb, wincing slightly when the skin pulls. She can feel the small bubble of blood running down the side of her hand and she lifts it to her mouth, sucking on it for a moment. “I want to,” she repeats.

“But you’re skipping out?”

“Cancelling,” Nicole corrects. “I didn’t skip. I  _ cancelled _ .”

Curtis points a finger at her. “Remember that distinction for when you’re older and you don’t want to go see the doctor.”

“What’s a distinction?”

Curtis frowns. “Like, a difference.”

Nicole takes that in, nodding. “Okay. I will.”

“Good,” Curtis says. “So why did you  _ cancel _ your lessons, if you  _ want _ to play?”

Nicole sighs and looks back down at the small flecks of paint she’s pulled up. She runs her fingers over them, trying to put them back into place. “I’m not good at it,” she mumbles.

Curtis leans in, frowning. “Say that again?”

“I said,” she starts, raising her voice. “I’m not  _ good _ at the drums.”

Curtis laughs. “Oh, girl. That’s how you get better, by practicing and going to lessons and-”

Nicole shakes her head, frustration building in her chest. “No, I practiced. I practiced every night until Nathan started hiding my sticks, and when my mom is working overnights, he’s in charge and he wouldn’t tell me where they were and I had to use the wooden spoons we have for making pasta and-”

“Woah,” Curtis breathes. “Slow down.”

Nicole takes a deep breath, exhaling loudly through her nose. “I practiced all the time. But I’m not  _ good _ at it. I kept losing the beat, and then my drumstick would go flying.” She looks down sheepishly. “One time, I hit the lunch lady in the head by accident.”

Curtis nods slowly. “I see.”

“I want to play,” Nicole says firmly. “I want to be good at it. But I can’t match the beat. I can’t keep rhythm. And that’s what drums is all about, right? About the rhythm.” She kicks one leg out angrily. “And I don’t have it. I’m rhythmless.”

“I’m sure you-”

“I can’t even do a single-stroke roll,” Nicole says, the words hard against the back of her teeth. “I can do it as slow as Cecil Wright, Sr. can walk, maybe.” She scoffs. “But I try to speed it up, and I  _ can’t _ . And Dale is trying to be nice, but I  _ keep _ messing up.”

Curtis is quiet for a moment. “So,” he finally says. “You just stopped going.”

“I didn’t want you to know,” Nicole admits. “That I have no rhythm.”

Curtis shakes his head slowly. “You have rhythm,” he tries to tell her.

“No, I don’t,” Nicole says over him. “I don’t. And it’s the  _ worst _ , because I love music.”

“I know you do,” Curtis says kindly. “Not being able to play the drums doesn’t mean-”

“Yes, it does,” Nicole cuts in. She feels desperate now. He doesn’t  _ get _ it. “How can I love music if I can’t carry a beat?”

Curtis is quiet for a long time, tapping the end of the tailgate with his fingernails. It makes a sharp, hollow sound. It’s an erratic beat that Nicole can’t follow, and she sighs, dropping her chin to her chest.  _ Great _ , she thinks.  _ Another rhythm I can’t follow _ . 

“Remember when I told you I was in Dale’s band?”

“Yeah,” she mutters.

“But I ended up becoming the roadie, because I was more into listening than playing.”

Nicole nods.

Curtis smiles crookedly. “The truth is, I wasn’t good.” He laughs, the sound dark and far away. “I tried guitar, but I couldn’t keep the chords in order. I tried the saxophone, but I don’t have enough hot air in me. I tried keyboard and drums and even the triangle, but I kept getting that wrong.” 

“You did?” Nicole asks breathlessly.

“I  _ loved _ music, but I couldn’t play it. I couldn’t remember notes, and I couldn’t read music. I could tell you where in a song the instrumental starts or how many choruses there are. I know every word the Eagles have ever sung.” Curtis shrugs a shoulder. “But I can’t play an instrument.”

Nicole blinks at him.

“It doesn’t mean I love music any less,” Curtis continues. “Does it?”

Nicole shakes her head slowly.

“It doesn’t mean I can never listen to it again, does it?”

Nicole shakes her head again.

“The point is, girl,” he says softly. “Some people  _ love _ music without making it. And some people make music without loving it.” He smiles, winking at her. “I’d rather be the person who loves it. What about you?”

“I’d rather love it,” Nicole whispers.

“That’s just as good,” Curtis assures her. “It might be better, even.” He leans back on his hands, sighing as he looks out across Purgatory. “I’d rather love it,” he repeats. “And you don’t need to be able to play to know that you love the music, okay?”

“Okay,” Nicole says quietly. 

Curtis smiles at her, squinting against the sun. They’re quiet for a few moments: the wind in her face and the sun warming her hands and Fleetwood Mac in the tape deck. 

“I have your money,” Nicole says quietly as “Landslide” comes on in the truck cab. Nicole can hear it through the open windows. “In my backpack.”

Curtis sighs and puts his hand down on her shoulder. “I don’t care about the money, girl. I care that you didn’t think you could tell me you were having trouble with this.”

“I didn’t tell anyone,” Nicole mutters.

“Except Waverly.”

Nicole rolls her eyes. “Waverly  _ made _ me tell her.”

Curtis laughs softly. “That sounds like our Waves.”

Nicole takes a deep breath, a question pushing at the back of her throat. “Are you...”

“Mad at you?” Curtis finishes. “No.”

Nicole shakes her head. “Disappointed,” she whispers.

Curtis slides closer, his arm across the back of her shoulders. She leans into his side, letting her eyes close. “Of course I’m not disappointed.”

_ Disappointed _ is her dad’s favorite word. She remembers him saying it a lot before he left:  _ I’m disappointed you didn’t make a better choice, Nicole.  _

_ I’m disappointed you tried to hide that from me, Nicole.  _

_ I’m disappointed, I’m disappointed, I’m disappointed.  _

Curtis presses a kiss to her forehead and she wiggles away from the stubble on his chin. “I’ll never be disappointed in you. In any of you.”

_ I wish you were my dad _ , she thinks, not for the first time.

But he’s not her dad and he’s not her uncle. 

He’s just  _ Curtis _ .

She nods slowly. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Curtis echoes. 

“ _ Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love? Can the child within my heart rise above? Can I sail through the changin' ocean tides? Can I handle the seasons of my life _ ?” Stevie Nicks sings through the open cab window. 

“Now, let’s head back into town, yeah?” Curtis asks. “We’ll stop at The Patch and give that money to Gus, tell her she can head into the city and get her hair done.”

Nicole wrinkles her nose, leaning away from Curtis. “She doesn’t like to get her hair done.”

Curtis laughs. “You’re right, girl.” He taps his chin. “Maybe we can convince her to get one of those Hamilton Beach food processors we saw on the television.”

Nicole snorts. “She’ll just say that-”

“ _ You can chop it just as well _ ,” they say at the same time. 

Curtis grins widely. “You pay attention, huh?”

“To everything,” Nicole admits. She squints up at him. “You rub the back of your neck when you’re tired of Wynonna back-talking Gus.”

Curtis scoffs. “Must rub the back of my neck a lot, then.”

Nicole nods solemnly. “You do.”

Curtis drops a hand on the top of her head, messing up her hair. “Let’s go tell Gus to treat herself to something nice, and then go get Wynonna from Mrs. Warnick’s.” He leans in, lowering his voice to a whisper, even though they’re the only ones up on the Top of the World. “You know, Mrs. Warnick says Wynonna has promise.”

“I know,” Nicole whispers back.

“She wants Wynonna to enter some type of competition, in Edmonton.”

Nicole rolls her eyes. “As if. Wynonna’ll never say yes.”

“Unless you convince her?” Curtis asks hopefully.

Nicole narrows her eyes, chewing her bottom lip between her teeth. “Would that be the right track?”

“What?” Curtis asks.

“You told me to keep Wynonna on track, right?” Nicole waits until Curtis nods. “Well, if I tell her to go do the competition, is that the right track?”

“I told you,” Curtis repeats. “The ‘right’ track is the one that feels good.”

Nicole thinks about it for another minute and then nods sharply. “Okay, then. I’ll tell her to do it.”

Curtis grins widely. “Atta girl.” He hops down off the tailgate and nods towards the cab of the truck. “Let’s get a move on, miss. We’ve got a whole afternoon ahead of us.”

Nicole practices her single-stroke roll on the dashboard, singing along to “World Turning,” and Curtis only grins when she loses the beat.


End file.
